


Stuck Fixated

by homuroo



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other, Out of Character, Silent Hill - Freeform, Silent Hill 4: The Room - Freeform, Video Game, what if Walter's mom had never abandoned him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 04:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17676227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homuroo/pseuds/homuroo
Summary: What if Walter's mother had never abandoned him? What if she decided to stay in Apartment 302 with him even as her fiancḗ fled, just so she could raise Walter as lovingly as she possibly could? Would it have had any lasting impact on the Holy Mother's near death-grip on a then-young Walter's psyche? And why exactly is the Holy Mother even in this picture at all? WHY pick Walter to carry out the 21 Sacraments if his mom had never forsaken him leaving him vulnerable? Would it undermine HER influence?? Perhaps Valtiel would have to get involved... "I'll be stuck fixated on You and Only You, while the rest of the world crashes down." AU (obviously) / CHAPTERED / WIP that I'll probably never finish. // WARNING: Walter will be verrry OOC.





	Stuck Fixated

**\-----** **STUCK FIXATED** **, Ch. 1 -----**

FIRST PERSON POV, LILANE SULLIVAN

 

When people say you can actually feel when an apparition is looking at you, they’re not lying. I not only felt it in weird, warm waves (quite the opposite of the icy cold aura you’d expect from a spirit of some sort, thanks to dramatized and staged ghost-hunting shows a la ”Dude, I’m suddenly freezing! It must be a ghost. Hurry, record an EVP!”), but I could also hear humming in my head in those instances. An older woman’s voice, I think. Never saying anything, just softly humming a song, like how you’d gently hum a lullaby for a restless baby. And the really strange part is (I know, I know; as if that wasn’t strange enough), it was always really comforting to me. I felt relaxed and at ease whenever it would thoroughly invade my consciousness, and afterwards, my oddly calm reaction to the all-encompassing humming would leave me almost frightened. (Almost.) I mean, why on Earth would it feel natural..? Why would it feel reminiscent of coming home after a long time abroad? The cozy and slightly sleepy way it presented itself each time, nearly lulling me into a peaceful slumber… I knew my reactions were absolutely ludicrous all things considered, but I could never bring myself to feel a sense of shock or fear in those wonderful, fleeting moments. I briefly pondered calling a psychiatrist.

 

It wasn’t just me, though. I have a son, you see. His name is Walter. Walter Sullivan, and my name is Lilane. And no matter what happened _ — _ yes, the unthinkably horrendous events that transpired (you’ll see) and the events still yet to come _ — _ I continue to love him deeply with all my heart and soul. At the time all this started happening, he was the tender age of six. He’d say peculiar things to me all the time, like “My other mom thinks you’re too harsh on me sometimes,” and “Other Mom says I have a natural gift. A talent. I wonder what kind of talent..?” Of course, children do have imaginary friends (sometimes even very detailed and complex imaginary friends) and other such oddities all the time. So, ultimately, I disregarded it. But…in the back of my mind, I would think about the humming. I’d think about it, along with the strange warm spots in the room, and the way doors in the apartment would magically open themselves for Walter, clear as day... I wanted to make a connection. Believe me, I did (after all, you’d have to be completely daft not to put two and two together). But, it was far too chilling. Too scary. Too  _ real _ . I had to actively and aggressively pretend it somehow wasn’t connected, or else I’d have desperately needed to see a shrink after all. Every day I conducted myself as I normally would and forced the skepticism to the outermost corners of my mind. And for years, we lived a somewhat happy life. Quiet, withdrawn _ — _ but happy.

 

It wasn’t until She started actually  _ talking _ to us when Walter was thirteen that things went horribly, utterly wrong.

  
  


“Mom… why did Dad leave?” “We’ve been over this before, Walt. He was an uncaring, unfeeling deadbeat. Trust me when I say he didn’t have it in him to be a decent father. We’re better off without him...okay, honey?” He frowned while stirring his steaming-hot microwaved oatmeal, clearly very, very dissatisfied with the seemingly undying, eternal answer. I say ‘eternal’ because that was the answer I’d given him each and every time he asked, almost like a pre-recorded, canned prompt. Sure, the words were never actually one hundred percent verbatim, but it was always some semblance of the same. Like a sad caricature of the original answer. A poorly-performed rendition. Hollow. Robotic. And, to Walter, painfully insufficient. It looked like he was toying with the idea of asking more; of asking for the real answer, or even asking for the gritty details, or maybe just rebelliously saying “I wish it was you who left.” 

 

But no, he simply changed the subject. “You know, I’ve put just about everything I can think of into this oatmeal to make it taste good, and it still kinda sucks. I want some Cinnamon Toast Crunch or something, not this crap. I’m thirteen, Mom. You’re treating me like a child.” “That’s because you are a child.” He ignored me, continuing his rant. “I mean, I added hazelnut coffee creamer, pancake syrup, some cinnamon, some honey, and, of course, some sugar...AND a dash of milk...and you know what? It still doesn’t taste as good as my cereal. Do you know how much sugar is in this oatmeal now, thanks to everything I added? Probably more than a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Reese’s Puffs combined! Oh, not that I would ever actually combine them though, because mixing the flavor of peanut butter with cinnamon would be kinda gross. Don’t you think?? Don’t you think the cinnamon would really clash with the peanut butter? I’d mix the Toast Crunch with Frosted Flakes, though. Now  _ that _ sounds good! Anyways, this oatmeal probably has a buttload of extra calories now too! Ya ever think of that? How I’m eating something that’s even worse for me than the sugary cereal, all because you wouldn’t let me have it, and forced me to eat this bland, goopy shit instead?” “Language,” I said, not wanting him to cuss so casually. I knew he was thirteen and, unfortunately, in public school, so naturally by that age he’d be swearing, but nonetheless, whenever he did happen to let a swear word out around me, I always urged him to put more thought into choosing his words. “Sorry,” he said, dropping the spoon into the oatmeal with a mushy “plop”. See, he always used to go on these fantastical, lengthy monologues when he was nervous. (Take the above cereal rant, for instance... One out of many nervous blabber-fests.) He also used to rapidly shake his leg back and forth as a nervous tic, but that concluded its annoying run when he was about ten. “It’s just that, my mom, you know, the other one...she said I deserve to eat whatever I want. And that I deserve to get whatever I want for Christmas and my birthday and stuff like that. You know...because of my talent.” I was taken aback. He hadn’t brought up his strange imaginary friend (or imaginary mother, in this case) in quite some time. I pursed my lips, sighed, and then asked, “What do you mean? Is She back?” He grinned and clapped his hands together, as if it was a good thing. As if this whole thing was completely normal at his age (or any age). As if it was something to be celebrated, even. “Yep! Only now I can actually hear her. Like, with my ears. Not just in my head anymore, but with my actual ears! Isn’t that cool?” “...You can...hear her..? Like, audibly??” “Mhmm. And She also says it’s time to unleash my talent. She says it’s time to go where I’m needed most.” I took a deep breath, extremely unsure of what to say next. I mean, how do you even respond to something so bizarre? “I dunno where I’m ‘needed most’ or whatever, but I’m sure She’ll tell me soon enough.” “...Finish your cereal,” I finally said, distracted and now distant. “Oatmeal,” he corrected. “I  _ wish _ it was cereal.”

  
  
  
  


\--- THIRD PERSON POV ---

  
Walter decided it really wasn’t so bad, being hospitalized for the alleged schizophrenia. “The media makes it look a thousand times worse than it actually is,” he thought. Or, if the horrors portrayed by the ever-so-greedy media still held true in some cases (and, of course, they  _ do _ ), he decided the good definitely outweighed the bad and that ‘the bad’ was blown way out of proportion. Of course, his opinion on the matter was greatly influenced by where he was staying. It was a nice “treatment center”, not a traditional mental hospital, and certainly not the gloomy psychiatric wing of an actual hospital. It doubled as a rehab facility and had its own pool that the patients were allowed to swim in once a week, which Walter thought was “like, insanely cool”, as he had so eloquently put it to his friend Richard on the phone (and phone privileges were very lax as well; The only time you couldn’t use the phones was when group therapy was in session). “Yeah, the meals here are actually pretty good! Don’t worry about me. I’m fine, promise. I’m actually making a lot of progress here!” he had said rather excitedly. Almost  _ too _ excitedly, for someone who was on a mandatory psychiatric hold after a particularly nasty scuffle with police. They were called out to the apartment because it was the fourth time Walter had mercilessly beaten his own mother to the point of blossoming bloody bruises and black eyes. All because  _ She  _ told him to. “Your Earthly mother is weak, my dear. She lacks resolve. She doesn’t deserve you... NO ONE deserves to be graced with your...extremely talented presence. And what’s more, she resents you. She doesn’t appreciate you. There isn’t a soul alive that could appreciate you the way I do. And, to be completely honest with you...my wonderful, wonderful Walter...she is beginning to  _ hate _ you.” Over and over again, these painfully troubling declarations, several times a day, multiple times a week, without fail. “She hates you, she hates you”, “...loathes you, absolutely cannot stand you...”, and then, finally, “She wants you DEAD.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, please go easy on me! I don't usually write, lol. I took a Creative Writing class in high school and that's about it. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed :) IDK when Chapter 2 is gonna be out...and sorry Chap 1 was so incredibly short.


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